


Afraid

by angstyfanboi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Best Friends, Bisexual Remus Lupin, Character Study, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Full Moon, Gay Sirius Black, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mentioned deaths, Oneshot, Pain, Pre-Relationship, Remus Lupin Lives, Requited Love, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Self-Reflection, Sirius Black Lives, Support, What Even Is Beta, after war, and it surprises a total of zero (0) people, im not crying, marauders-mention, rational sirius, sirius black - Freeform, they both live, though one may argue he's also emotionally constipated, wolfstar, you are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22633006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstyfanboi/pseuds/angstyfanboi
Summary: While it’s true Remus is afraid of the moon, it is truly scary to think of the day his star will burn out.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	Afraid

It’s never easy to forget how terrifying nights can be, at least not as far as Remus is concerned, and never the morning after the moon shines down at its fullest, bright and godly and unforgiving.

His bones are heavy and aching, like lava and venom and acid, all at once coursing through his veins to dissolve his insides, and though that seems to be the worst, it is actually his spinning, pouncing head, alight with blossoming pain of different lights and colors that take the cake. It is still hard for him to adjust to the dim light coming from the precarious bulb flickering on the ceiling. He can just vaguely remember where he is before the door opens with a screech of age and magic, and a halo of dark curls appears on the gap.

Sirius’s eyes are alight like the star that names him, laced with silver tendrils of worry that are louder than his voice— since he is now so quiet even Remus’s harbored breaths hold more volume— and he moves methodically gentle like he is afraid his hands hold enough power to do more harm than good to the already broken man lying on the floor naked.

He is careful to wrap the previously warmed blanket over Lupin’s frail shoulders, covering the raw skin just enough to keep him warm yet not to the point of being an overwhelming experience when he is still so tired from last night. He bites his tongue to keep himself from speaking wounded truths at such a bad time— though, as far as Sirius is concerned, every time is a bad time when it comes to bare his feelings to anyone— when the man, just shy of being in his arms, shivers with both the clash of temperatures and the steady presence of another by his side. So he presses closer, close enough to feel the rising temperature from the bare skin of his best friend’s body.

The light flickers again, and Sirius looks up, to heaven and entities that _might_ be looking down rather than the precarious bulb that has been dying for no one knows how long, begging, pleading for something he doesn’t share with Remus, yet another secret he keeps to himself as if he doesn’t trust Lupin anymore.

“Let’s go up.” Voice fond, gentle and low, minding the fact Remus’s ears are even more sensitive than usual and hands fonder, gentler, steady as they help him up and forward even when his body, taller, heavier, stumbles on his failing knees and almost sends them crashing all the way back to the dirty floor of the 12 Grimmauld’s place prepared basement. Ever since Sirius decided to keep the place, despite so many dark memories that still find a way to haunt his nightmares, so Harry could live with him, he prepared, against Remus will, his basement with protective spells so he could use it during the full moon like he used the Shrieking Shack back in his time at Hogwarts. And though he still refuses to admit as such, he truly is thankful he gets to spend more time with Sirius, especially the morning after bending and breaking bones, as they shift to a feral skeleton of a beast rather than a human being.

The two men manage to stumble quietly, loyalty and friendship and so much more they’re hell-bent on hiding from everyone including themselves locking their hearts to the point it’s close to shattering, to the living room, falling with a hollow ‘thud’ of heavy bones and lingering exhaustion of a sleepless night to add to many others, and Remus’s head finds its rightful place on Sirius’s shoulder effortlessly, like it’s second nature, a tradition by now.

Only yesterday Sirius was hiding from Dementors, running against time to prove his innocence. Or even running to save his life, a war exploding after years of lying dormant in the darkest crevices untouched by the miracle that was Harry Potter’s life, and the Dark Lord’s disappearance.

Only yesterday they were young and running wild without a care in the world— being pricks, sure, but being glorious _gods_ , also— the Marauders, Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers. They made history: as lions, they roared, and as the golden and the red of their house’s crest, they’ve burned bright and bled hard and died young still.

They’re the only ones left, Moony and Padfoot, the lycanthrope and the disinherited. They’re alone after so many deaths, so many heartaches, heartbreak. The memory of young wizards creating mischief and havoc on the grounds of Hogwarts— himself being the one who stayed behind to justify the mess like a responsible father, while James and Sirius walked in the front line with their wide noble smiles and eyes alight with misconduct and stars and flames, and Peter, so loyal at the time, in the middle, not enough of a troublemaker but not as much of a responsible father either— is enough to make the blossoming headache a little more unbearable, because he was never much of someone who keeps himself from crying for a long time and he still tries his best for Sirius sake.

Except Sirius is having none of it. When Remus forces his neck to bear a little more effort to remove his head from his friend’s shoulder, the man grabs his hand firmly but never with enough strength to hurt or be uncomfortable, turning his silver eyes to him in a plead and reprimand. They seem to scream at him for trying to hide his pain, and they seem to embrace him as if they’re immersed in the past as well when they were lions, flames, gods, _legends._ For they became legends when they died and faded away, no longer living beings of mischief and everything in between, but old shadows who are being taken to the place of the dead as a new time arrives.

So Sirius grabs his hand, bent on keeping it rather than let it go, eyes wide, pleading, admonishing, and so hurt and hollow and sad all the same. And Remus, taken aback by the intensity of the bond they share, after so many years refusing to admit he loves his best friend in the way lovers do, in the way Lily loved James and James loved Lily, stares back just as star-struck because he is sure Sirius is no longer a man named after a star but the star itself, the star whose light is rivaled only by the sun.

They lock eyes, their breathings are particularly shallow and caged, choked instead of exhaled. There are tears brimming the sides of Remus’s pained green eyes and while it isn’t as noticeable on Sirius’s— one would argue he’s just _that_ constipated— the extra layer of brightness can only be of tears as well. Pain is there, ugly and morbid and overwhelming, and Sirius is no stranger to it. It is pain of losing most of the people that ever accepted him when others expected him to be like the Black’s heir should be: a Slytherin bigot more concerned of blood and family than of righteous equality. He achingly remembers how the Potter took him in when his own mother burned his face off the family mural, the kindness on Lily’s eyes when she hugged him while no one else was around. He doesn’t want to remember Peter, Peter who was a friend until he was not, Peter who betrayed James and Lily and Harry and Peter who left him to rot in Azkaban while Dementors sucked every lasting happiness and good memories he held. But he remembers him still, how he hesitated and always made them wait before acting on their urges, how he would side with Remus to bring hell upon their reckless heads; and though he wishes to forget that Death Eater traitor, it is simply impossible when he trusted him so much back when they had yet to turn to whispered legends in between cracks of the magic walls of the Hogwart’s castle.

Of those times, only Remus is left to hold the weight of a night sky on his tired shoulders. It would be easier if the only burden he has would be of the mourning of his dead friends and not also the burden of being unable to accept himself in his differences. And Sirius knows, as painful as it is, that he can’t do it for him, he can’t accept him and make everything okay because this is just one of those things that one must do by himself no matter how good others do it. Because he knows, he _knows_ , kissing the pain away never works. He tried doing it before, people tried doing it before. Never worked and never will.

So this is not a good time— and again, Sirius would argue in that know-it-all voice of his that there’s never a good time when it comes to the affairs of broken hearts more used to forced loneliness and mourning— to act on his feelings and lay his heart’s contents bare for Remus to hold and make his decision. Sirius has waited a long time, has felt the pain of being stripped hollow and empty of happiness and everything that grows in between, and has been rendered hopeless more often than not; but he considers that if there is one thing that Pettigrew traitor was right about is that there is bravery in waiting.

And so he hopes, he wishes and begs, and he _dreams_ of the day there will ever be a good time for them to become more, a time when they’ve accepted themselves and healed the pain away rather than kiss it because that is the only real way to make it leave. And one day he won’t argue of the lack of a good time to spill himself raw, but rather accept it as an opportunity he can’t pass as it will be easier to accept things as they arrive in his hands. And one day he’ll try, just not now.

Amidst this all, Sirius thinks, and hopes and wishes and begs and dreams, that he is being honest in the way his eyes can’t leave Remus’s green meadows of pain and all the despair in between, and in the way his fingers clasp his idealized lover’s and in the way he licks his lips when everything is dry and devoid of nurture.

Remus understands him: he clasps the fingers back and nods as an answer to the question Sirius never asked, but he too thinks that he doesn’t want this opportunity to be spent rather ungodly, and how they’re too tragedy-stricken now to nurture this fragile seed. He too is willing to wait, and if he can’t lick his bloody wounds now then he isn’t ready to do anything more caring, and that on itself is more than a proof that they would ruin this no matter how much they want it to work out— because sometimes _love_ is simply not enough.

Hesitancy finds a home in their chests, it urges them forward and still holds them back. Remus joins their foreheads together, his skin clammy with sweat and blood and dirt and so unbecoming of touching a star like Sirius, though the man and star himself doesn’t seem to mind the contact at all, and if anything he pushes them closer until he can just feel the way Sirius’s hot breath brushes fondly and lovingly alluring against his cold skin.

He still remembers the night, the forsaken way he went feral and wild and rough and the way he hates himself for it almost as much as he fears himself in that state. He hates the moon when it’s full and fears it when it’s not, and though he tries his best not to look to the sky at night and ignore its existence until he can’t anymore, he is drowning in Sirius’s dark curls like the night sky, and silver eyes like the stars and he realizes the only night he neither hates nor fears is the man he loves as much as his heart can love.

While it’s true Remus is afraid of the moon, it is truly scary to think of the day his star will burn out, for even stars can’t be immortal: every star has a life and in a way, they’re closer to humans than humans are closer to stars. He just hopes the day when his most precious person becomes a supernova will be down the future when he no longer has to fear anything but death itself, and even that he can welcome with open arms as he would to old friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Dudes, this is self-indulgent and yes I do enjoy suffering and writing sad things and I love them so much but they're too sad to be together so please take care of yourselves first and I love crying goodbye.


End file.
